THE next three days were more miserable to Hugh than those he had spent in prison. He missed Margot keenly. He had become so used to her; she had waited on him so devotedly; had made herself so essential to him in a hundred little ways. Her sudden desertion of him when he most needed her filled him with dismay.
He felt injured, too. He had done a good deal for her. He had always been a perfect brother, respectful and courteous. If she had been a real sister, he could not have thought more of her. If he could get her back he would be even more considerate. He would take her to the cinema, to tea sometimes, even for a drive occasionally. The trouble was, if he went about with her, people would jump at wrong conclusions. Well, in future, let ’em jump. He would buy that cottage and she should keep house for him. He wondered if it would be possible to legally adopt her as a sister. Then she could live with him until she found the man she wanted to marry. Why not?
Where was she? In Paris, no doubt; taking up the weary struggle once more. She would surely write soon, then he would go and fetch her. Why had she left most of her clothes, he wondered? All the things he had bought her? Perhaps she did not want to take them. The sight of her abandoned garments made him lonelier than ever.
She must have left just before the crime. If she had been there, it might not have happened, she always kept such a watchful eye on the old man’s door. How shocked she would be. She had been so fond of the professor, fussing over him, doing things for him. Poor man! So that was the end of all his grandiose schemes. And the system was useless, for only he, Hugh, had the key. Well, he was glad it had been stolen. He had always hated it. There had been something so uncanny about it. Although it was always successful, it seemed to bring misfortune on all connected with it.
He felt the shadow of the tragedy penetrating even to his room. The concierge who had identified him as the murderer, had discreetly gone on a vacation; but Hugh had gathered dubious details of what had happened. About ten o’clock the assassin had mounted to the old man’s room. The concierge had seen him enter, but had not seen him leave. About midnight the occupant of the room below, a Casino employé, had heard groaning; but by the time the door had been opened the old man was dead. He was lying face downward in a pool of blood with a knife stab just under the ribs. The safe was open and empty; the room ransacked.
That was all Hugh could learn. It was vague and confusing enough. The Monaco police seemed to be in no hurry to clear up the mystery and probably would allow it to swell the list of the Principality’s undiscovered crimes.
Oh, for a word from Margot! He was growing anxious about her. Then one day the postman handed him a letter.
It bore the post-mark of Monaco. He tore it open and read with amazement the following:
“My dear Cousin:
“You will no doubt be surprised at this manner of address, but various things have led me to conclude that the above relationship exists between us.
“My uncle was Gilbert Kildair, the well-known artist, who, I find according to the records of the Municipality of Menton, was duly married to Lucia Fontana on the nineteenth of October, 1898.
“After his death she went to England to see if his family would not do something for her and her son; but they had quarrelled with him and refused to recognize her as his wife.
“My mother was a Kildair, and struck by the curious resemblance between us, I made inquiries with this result.
“I know that up to now your feelings towards me have been hostile, but I hope that in view of our newly discovered relationship, you will let byegones be byegones. After all, blood is thicker than water, and already I feel an interest in you that exceeds the warmth of ordinary friendship.
“I would like you to visit me at my Villa. If it suits you, my car will await you at ten this evening at the Church of St. Devoté. Do run you up. Please do not fail me.
“Your cousin,
“PAUL VULNING.”
Hugh had to read this extraordinary letter over three times before he understood the significance of it. To his amazement succeeded disgust. He had no desire to be related to Vulning. His dislike for the man was invincible. There was also his resentment towards his father’s family. He did not want to have anything to do with them. They had refused to recognize his mother, and had never shown the slightest interest in himself. Vulning was typical of them, arrogant, selfish, supercilious. Why then this sudden interest on his part? Why did Vulning recognize him now, want to take him up? Hugh was puzzled.
He decided to go to Vulning’s villa; there could be no harm in that. He might gain some information about his parents. He did not like Vulning any the better now that he knew he was a cousin. Still there was no reason they should not be decently civil to one another.
He was glad to learn that his father had been a well-known artist. That accounted for his own modest talent and his joy in playing with colours. His mother ... his poor mother ... perhaps she was one of the Fontanas of Monaco, the famous Fontanas. He must go over to Menton and look up the register. The letter suggested to him new and engrossing lines of thought. He awaited the evening with impatience.
At ten o’clock the carmine car was waiting, breathing softly, with great glowing eyes. The chauffeur touched his hat and Hugh leapt into the seat beside him. How he loved a car! This was a Hispana Suiza and the one-eyed chauffeur drove like a demon. He climbed the steep serpentine hill, nursing his motor with infinite delicacy. The engine roared triumphantly; the lights of the town fell away; the world widened gloriously. They rose with a steady, panting urge, toward the mountains and the stars.
Soon they were well in the belt of orange groves and the road became more difficult to follow. The chauffeur was driving at a slow pace, the way twisting and turning. Hugh could hardly believe that any one lived in such a remote place until he remembered that Vulning’s villa was the highest on the hillside. It was ideal for any one who loved seclusion; the view must be superb. Presently lights swooped towards them, and the wheels of the car ground in the gravel. They had arrived.
There is always something mysterious about the approach to a lonely house at night. The sense of mystery at Vulning’s villa was heightened by the great garden that encircled it. The vast velvety blackness, with its suggestions of pines and cyprus, and its rich sullen silence was almost aggressive. Against the mountain the tall house loomed faintly. It was terraced on three sides, with a flight of steps leading up to the front entrance.
As he mounted them the door opened and a man awaited him. Hugh was surprised to see it was Bob Bender. Bob smiled in his sly, deprecating way.
“How are you, sir? Mr. Vulning’s expecting you. He’s in the library. Come this way.”
He led Hugh down a long unlighted hall and halted before a door. The air was stale and heavy.
Then the door was opened and Hugh found himself in a large sombre room, panelled in dark wood; over what appeared to be a bay window hung heavy crimson curtains. The window was evidently open, as the curtains trembled slightly. By an oak table in the middle of the room stood Vulning with a curious smile on his face.
As the two men faced one another the resemblance between them was more striking than ever. Both were tall and slim and straight. Both had the severely regular features of the type that used to be known as the English governing class. Their hair was of the same light chestnut and brushed smoothly back. But while Hugh’s eyes were black, those of Vulning were blue; while Hugh’s face was frank and boyish, that of Vulning was cynical and blasé. There appeared to be a dozen years of difference in their ages.
For a moment there was an awkward pause, then Vulning held out his hand with a rather exaggerated cordiality.
“Come on, now, be cousinly. I know you are prejudiced against me; but, hang it all, I’ve suffered more at your hands than you have at mine. Let’s forget it, bury the hatchet, shake hands. Come, be a good sport.”
Hugh complied reluctantly. Cousin or not he could not overcome his repugnance to this man.
“You were doubtless surprised,” Vulning went on pleasantly. “I was, too, when I made the discovery. It was our mutual friend, Mrs. Belmire, who put me on the track. It is really a very curious coincidence. However, we won’t dwell on that. I asked you up here to speak about quite another matter. Won’t you sit down? You’ll find that arm-chair quite decent.”
Hugh took it, but Vulning remained standing.
“Now,” he continued, “I am afraid I am going to surprise you a second time. To make a long story short, a few days ago there came into my hands, in a round-about-way, certain documents with which you are doubtless familiar. It was with regard to these I wanted to see you. Look....”
With that Vulning extracted from the inside pocket of his coat a rolled mass of manuscript, and laid it on the table, keeping his hand on it.
“You know this, eh?”
Hugh was speechless. He sat staring at the document. The cover had been torn away, but he recognized it at once.
“The system of Professor Durand,” he gasped.
“Precisely. It’s all here. It was taken from his safe, and has come into my possession; how—I cannot for the moment explain. Now what I want of you is this....”
Vulning bent forward eagerly, his eyes gleaming.
“You and I alone know of this. I have all the documents that refer to the system, but I am forced to confess I can do nothing with it. You, I believe, are the one man who can decipher it. Now I want to propose a partnership between us. You will translate this manuscript. We will work the thing together. We will get a hundred million francs out of the bank. We will share fifty-fifty. That is generous,—too generous. But then we are cousins. Well, are you on?”
Hugh sat as if transfixed, staring at the folio. The sudden sight of it, combined with the impudence of the proposal, quite took away his breath. Vulning watched him keenly.
“Takes you some time to realize it. I told you I would surprise you.”
Hugh started up. “But,” he cried, “these documents do not belong to you. They were stolen. The professor intended to leave them to me after his death. I was to publish them. It’s a sacred trust. Here, give them to me....”
He made a grab for the documents; but Vulning withdrew them quickly, and at the same time jerked a small revolver from his pocket.
“No, you don’t,” he sneered. “Stand back. I’ve got you covered.”
“You’ve no right to these papers,” Hugh protested hotly. “I’ll go and tell the police.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort. Don’t be a fool. It’s a fair offer I’m making you. You translate this and we’ll work together. Come!”
“I refuse.”
“You refuse. You surprise me. An easy chance to make fifty million francs. Think of all it means, man,—wealth, luxury, beauty. We are getting it all legitimately from an institution that deserves no better treatment. Consider again. You’ll translate this?”
“I tell you; no!”
“May I ask why?”
“Because.... Look here, how did those documents come into your hands?”
“Never mind. I told you we would not go into that.”
“You have some connection with this theft. You....”
Then a light burst on Hugh. The man for whom he had been arrested—
“It was you who stole them.... And—Oh, my God! ... you damned villain! It was you, you who murdered Professor Durand.”
Vulning’s face went white; he seemed about to collapse.
“No, I didn’t,” he stammered. “Not that. I swear I didn’t do that. Look here, I’ll be quite honest. I confess I took the papers. The professor admitted me in the dusk, thinking it was you. He was working, and the safe was open. I asked to refer to the system, and he brought it to me. Then he saw who it was. We struggled, and I gave him a touch of chloroform, a mere touch, not enough to harm him. When I came away he was sleeping like a baby. I took the papers, closed the safe and left very quietly. That’s all I know. He was found later, stabbed to the heart. I did not do it. I swear to that.”
Aghast, incapable of action, Hugh stood staring at him. Then as quickly as he had weakened Vulning recovered himself, and started forward, tense, tigerish.
“I’ve told you too much,” he snarled. He covered Hugh with his revolver.
“You dog! I hate you. You refuse to give up what you know,—well then, there’s only one thing left,—to make you. Ho! there.”
At his shout the door was thrown open. Bob Bender and the one-eyed chauffeur rushed in.
“Quick. That rope in the corner! Tie him up. Steady there, you young hound; or I’ll shoot.”
The chauffeur and Bob Bender threw themselves on Hugh. In spite of Vulning’s threat, he struggled fiercely. It was not until the chauffeur had pinioned and tripped him that he fell heavily. The three men held him down, and trussed him so that he could not move. He lay helpless, gazing up at them and panting painfully.
“Ah,” said Vulning, “that was hard. Let me get my breath....”
He regarded Hugh malevolently. As he lit a cigarette, his eyes were sinister in their cruelty.
“He refuses to do what we want, boys. There’s only one thing left, regrettable though it is; we’ve got to make him. Prop him up against the wall.”
They did so. Hugh glared at them.
“Go on,” he gasped. “You murdered the professor. Murder me too.”
“I think we’ll get what we want out of you without that,” said Vulning. “Close that window, Bob. He’ll probably scream. Charlot, you know your job.”
What were they going to do? Hugh’s eyes followed them fearfully. He watched Bob Bender go to the window and remain some moments fumbling at the latch. He saw the villainous-faced chauffeur leave the room and return with a pair of powerful pincers in his hand. Meanwhile Paul Vulning sat down on the edge of the table and inhaled his cigarette. He was evidently enjoying the scene and proposed to play with his victim as a cat does with a mouse. Well, Hugh resolved, he would not cry out whatever happened. At least Vulning should not get that satisfaction from him.
The chauffeur caught Hugh’s hand, and, gripping the end of his thumb with the pincers, began to squeeze. Hugh felt the nail crack. The pain was excruciating. His breath came quick; his eyes started from his head. He choked back his groan of agony. Vulning was grinning now, the grin of a devil. It was that grin that nerved Hugh; not a sound passed his lips.
“Harder yet,” hissed Vulning. “Make him scream. Begin on another finger. Get a good grip. Squeeze! Remember, there are ten of them.”
He was carried away by a passion of cruelty and trembled with a strange joy as he watched Hugh’s face. The pain was so atrocious that Hugh almost fainted. Never mind! They should not make him give in. They should kill him first.
“Here, let me do it,” said Vulning. “You’re too easy.”
Hugh felt his nail bursting under the continued pressure. He closed his eyes. His breath came in long gasps....
Then suddenly in that tense and thrilling silence he heard a voice ringing out, high, harsh, metallic:
“Hands up, all of you.”